My friends practice therapeutic shopping. Dee's a ferocious bargain-hunter
who's drawn to dollar stores and celebrates every find, and even
my reclusive bear-like friend who seldom buys necessities haunts
music stores. But I can't join them because I hate shopping.
I hate to shop for
anything, anytime, anywhere. I know this is not normal female
behavior. Guilt plagues me each time I read a borrowed magazine
and don't buy anything shown on its pages. However, when I think
about shopping my head hurts, my self-esteem shrivels and my wallet
disappears. I can't blame my mother: she didn't have this problem.
Maybe therapy would help me adjust and deal with this syndrome
because bad things happen when I shop.
For instance, about
three months ago I pulled the plug on my washer's miserable leaky
life. The dryer had to go too. It whined like a cranky child and
seldom obeyed the heat command. After they went to appliance heaven,
it was time to buy new ones but, my wallet suffered an anxiety
attack and I chose avoidance. I became a Laundromat habitué. I
could wash and dry four or five loads in ninety minutes and could
dream, read a book, or write letters while I waited. The cost
kept interrupting my reveries. All those quarters and dollars
going, going, going every week compelled me comparison-shop.
My wallet wriggled
away every time I planned to leave the house. Eventually, I went
to seven different appliance stores and dragged my recalcitrant
wallet along. The sales people intimidated me and so did the complicated
appliances. I was afraid I'd fail the user test. Apparently, you
can program a washer to do everything except tap dance. Dancing
is forbidden. Finally, I found the perfect front-loading washer/dryer
combination. It fits my tiny space and I may even finish paying
for it some day. Probably about the same time I learn to program
it correctly and it decides to die.
For a while after that
adventure, I abstained from almost every type of shopping while
I recovered from post-shopping distress syndrome. My wallet thanked
me and my self-esteem began to recover.
Then, last week, I
thought I should buy some new slacks. Not a big deal you say,
and you would be right except … I couldn't do it. I went into
a ladies-wear store at the mall. There were several size 2 women
in the store when the aggressive sales person cornered me.
"What can I help you
with, dear?"
"I'm sort of looking
for a pair of slacks," I said.
"You look like about
a size fourteen dear."
"Uh, no, yes, maybe
… I thought I was a twelve or a ten uh" I muttered.
"Oh no, you're definitely
a fourteen" she said loudly to the audience of size 2's.
"I think I forgot to
put money in the meter, I'll be back" I whispered.
I left the store, and
tried to find my way out of the mall. They don't make it easy.
I had planned to do some more shopping, but what if I ran into
that sales person again? She'd tell me there are no parking meters.
Another store added to my stores to avoid list. I live
in a small city and it's only a matter of time before all
the available stores are on the list unless I get help. I need
someone who'll provide unconditional positive support and help
me acquire a shopping habit.
I do have the
habit of buying groceries. Most of the things on my list are either
at the back of the store or in the aisles furthest from the entrance.
Pretending to have tunnel vision helps me sidle past the nonessential
items. The shopping list would help too, but I always leave it
at home. I reinforced my positive behaviour and reminded myself
that I can cope with shopping, if I take it one day at a time.
Then, another bad thing happened.
This morning I decided
to vacuum. I should have waited until the stores were closed.
Why? Because the vacuum cleaner decided its time had come. It
ended its life with a screech, burning out its motor and flinging
dust in my face. I could swear I heard it say, "Vengeance is mine!
This is for all the times you didn't change my bag soon enough"
Already I have the
beginnings of a headache; my wallet has buried itself in the sofa
and won't come out.
Help!
Diane Girard
is 59 years old and lives in Kitchener, Ontario, Canada near her
family of a daughter and two grandsons. Diane began writing poetry
and fiction in grade school and has continued to scribble for
her own pleasure while earning a living in different ways. She
has had several careers and is currently not considering
becoming a consultant.
Flattering
comments may be sent to her via e-mail at digirar@sprint.ca
